Penitent's Progress
by Experimental
Summary: (Follows "The Company of Men" and "Idle Pursuits") Francis should have known that the more he snuck off to Philippe for favors, the greater the likelihood he would get caught. What he could not have known was how Mary would propose to get even. Two-parter.
1. Indulgences

_**A/N:** This story follows "The Company of Men" and "Idle Pursuits," and is the final two-part part of this Francis/Nardine diversion that quite got away from me. Also, finally catching up to canonical introductions, it references events in episode 1.15, "The Darkness". May it please._

* * *

Indulgences

Lord Castleroy was the last person Francis expected to find sharing in Philippe's debauchery, when he walked in on the two of them in the library. Yet there Castleroy was on the settee, the top clasps of his doublet undone, and looking up at the count who loomed before him with an expression of enrapt enthusiasm in his eyes. . . .

Until Philippe moved to the side, and Francis could clearly see that it was only a book he had left in the lord's hand.

"Ah, Prince Francis!" Castleroy said, brightening when he saw the dauphin standing in the doorway. "Please, come in and join us. We were just trying to find some light topic of conversation to distract us from our dismal performances this First Light. Not that I would want to burden you with the troubles of a perpetual bachelor. . . ."

Philippe shot Francis a knowing smile at that comment, stifling a laugh—clearly, it said, not everyone present particularly minded their bachelorhood—but Francis pretended for the lord's sake he had not seen it.

He said to Castleroy, "I am very sorry to hear about your dinner with Lady Greer. Though it might not seem to count for much, given my current circumstances, I know how it feels to have one's best offer rejected, despite knowing with all your heart how right it is." Even if Francis wasn't sure Mary's lady-in-waiting would agree that marrying a man twice her age was her idea of right. Nevertheless, "You have my sympathy."

Castleroy thanked him for that. "If what it takes to make me realize she's beyond my reach is a humiliation as sounding as that which I received the other night, I guess I had better learn my lesson from it. But alas, I've always been too stubborn to know what's good for me. I cannot stop thinking of her still.

"Thankfully, Count Nardine," he said with a glance up at Philippe, "has found just the book to distract me in your father's library. You don't mind if I borrow it for a little while?"

"Somehow," Philippe said while Francis gave Castleroy his consent, "I get the impression the prince would like to speak to me alone."

Francis hadn't said a word to indicate it, but it would be just like Philippe to guess his wishes unspoken. His light blue eyes held Francis's across the room, and Francis was grateful if all Castleroy could read from that scrutinizing gaze was that whatever it was they wished to discuss, it was of a sensitive, private nature.

He hurried to excuse himself from the room, thanking them both again for the loan of the book.

And when the door was shut behind him, Francis raised his brow at Philippe. "Lord Castleroy, now?"

"Normally I'd say it wasn't what it looked like," Philippe said, "but this time it's exactly what it looked like: two men having a riveting exchange about the pepper plant and where one might find it."

"And for a moment I actually thought he had sought you out hoping to forget a certain auburn-haired young lady who rejected his advances."

That earned him a chuckle. "Unless the young lady in question is particularly hirsute above the neck for her sex, I doubt I would be any sort of consolation. Though I appreciate your high esteem of my ability to make one forget his former cares."

But Philippe sobered, and stretched himself out on the settee Lord Castleroy had so recently abandoned.

"I suppose you already know Lady Lola has turned down my offer of marriage," he drawled, as if the answer were of little consequence to him. Though, Francis noticed, he watched the prince's expression rather carefully as he spoke.

Yet Francis was determined to reveal nothing. "I hadn't heard anything final, but I can't say it isn't for the best. For both of you."

"I have to disagree. I liked the girl. Quite a bit, actually, which rather surprised me. Our minds are very much alike, hers and mine, and I am sure our domestic life together would have been filled with wonderfully witty conversation. I even felt that we could grow to love each other in time."

Francis could hardly believe his audacity. "You know that isn't true. Not in the ways that really matter, anyway. You might grow to love her, but never desire her. If you had half as much respect for Lola as you claim, then you would have done well not to lead her on with unrealistic expectations."

It wasn't so much the first part of that observation that Philippe took exception to, as the last part of it. He had kept his expectations perfectly realistic, he said, and he would wager Lola had too. "The truth is, she couldn't do much better socially than to marry me. She could have given me children, and, with my inheritance secure, I would have shown her the continent, given her anything her heart desired—"

"Except you."

That gave Philippe pause, but only for a beat. "I'm sure somewhere in Europe there would have been at least one man who could make her happy in whatever capacity I wasn't able. It would have made no difference to me, so long as she was content and discreet. Perhaps that could have even been a possibility for us both. I trust she would have been practical enough to recognize that the benefits of our arrangement outweighed its deficiencies.

"But now the two of us are blessedly unattached again," he said with ample sarcasm, "and I with time to find someone else as ideal as Lady Lola—which will not be easy—ticking away from me. The only way she could have been _more _ideal is if she were already with child!"

He laughed at that. And though perhaps he meant nothing insulting by it, Francis couldn't help feeling stung that the young woman he was speaking of so crudely was a dear friend. If for no other reason than that, he told himself, he had made the right decision for Lola, and shut his mind to the doubt that had only now, since speaking to Philippe again, begun to surface.

"Well!" Philippe said in a rush of a sigh as he stood, startling Francis from his thoughts. "Since I've already come all this way, I certainly don't intend to leave empty-handed. First Light has come and gone, and as it's highly unlikely I'll be going home with an engagement now, I believe you owe me for my trouble, Francis."

"_I _owe _you_?" An uneasy chuckle. "_Mary_ invited you to this little meet-and-greet—completely without my knowledge, I might add." If it had been up to him, he would have told Philippe outright not to come.

"And you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Lola's sudden change of heart?"

Well, it would not have served any purpose to deny it. "I thought she should know what she would be agreeing to," he said, meeting the other's gaze brazenly. "She doesn't know everything, I didn't go babbling about your . . . preferences. I at least did you that kindness. But I thought she could do better. Find someone who could love her like a husband should."

"You could have given her the truth of it and let her make up her own mind. I would have at least understood the reason for her rejection then."

True, Francis supposed he _could_ have done that. . . .

"Unless you have some other reason to care about Lady Lola's happiness so much. Some reason to keep her close to court."

Francis was sure his face must have turned bright pink. It might have been idle speculation on Philippe's part, but the truth of it was hard to deny. And he resented that the count had struck so close to the mark. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying, _Count_. And so what if I do care whether Lola is happy in her marriage, as one friend would care about another? I am not the type of man to play match-maker with mistakes I made before I was wed just so they'll go away and leave me with a clean conscience."

"And am I supposed to be flattered or offended that you rank me among your mistakes?"

"Ha! As if _anything_ offends you—"

"You were certainly in a hurry to make that mistake again the last time we met. _After _you were wed."

Heart leaping, Francis's gaze flickered to the door, all of a sudden just wanting to make sure it was completely closed, and that no one had heard Philippe's mention of his infidelity. But he deserved that, he supposed. Even now there was something about Philippe's charismatic character that drew Francis in toward him. If anything, it seemed a shame to him that the count's talents as a lover were wasted on men, having some knowledge now of what Philippe's future bride, whoever she should be, would be missing.

But that didn't mean he didn't want to get rid of the count as soon as possible. "What do you want?"

Until then, Philippe had been steadily closing the distance between them, and Francis had been content to let him. Nor did he pull away when Philippe hooked an arm round his waist, though Francis knew he should have found the will power to do so.

The words uttered huskily against his ear sent a rush of blood straight to his loins: "I think you know."

"Fine."

All this time, Francis could have tried anything to throw Philippe off his guard, and that was all it took? The count looked at him when he pulled back as if he couldn't trust his own ears. "Really. No bribes, no deals. Just like that?"

"Why not?" Francis was trying his damnedest to be nonchalant about the whole matter, as he went over to the settee and threw himself on it; though he could feel his limbs start to tremble with the anticipation of Philippe's touch despite himself, like a drunkard too long without a drink finding a full goblet within reach. "I certainly enjoy myself when I'm with you—"

"It must be difficult for you to admit that."

"—and I never have to do a thing, for a pleasant change of pace. Come on, then," he said, since Philippe was taking his time. Enjoying being thought of as an indulgence, no doubt. "Let's get this over with."

"Well, don't you know just how to set the mood," Philippe said with a weary sigh that Francis was sure was manufactured. "Mary's 'indisposed' again, I take it."

"I don't see how that's any of your business." But Francis didn't deny it.

"You have to stop using that excuse to justify coming to me for release. God will strike you down for it."

"Now, I know you don't believe that." It was all Francis could do to make himself sound so disinterested; for the moment Philippe's lips attacked the sensitive bit below where his ear and jaw met, Francis's true feelings about the matter came out, in a long sigh.

It was the forcefulness of the count he craved, Francis decided, a dominant will that few had the temerity to assert on the dauphin due to his station. Though he couldn't honestly say his fencing practice sessions with Bash aroused him, they certainly warmed the blood in a way that was as carnal as sex, as thrilling. Between their duel of words and the strong grip he had on Francis's doublet, Philippe aroused a fierce competitiveness in Francis seemingly by his very nature; but whatever their disagreements, it was the infallibility of the count's touch that made this giving in feel so illicit, so wrong it was all but right. The scratch of Philippe's beard against his throat drew a shiver up Francis's spine. He let his eyes fall closed, and let his head fall to the cushion.

Philippe's leg came to rest between his, and Francis didn't care how wanton or desperate it made him look in the other's eyes. He wanted what he wanted, and if he had to arch under Philippe and grind against him to get it any faster, he would. And his efforts were rewarded not long after, with the count's long fingers effortlessly untying his breeches. It certainly didn't help that his tongue found Francis's ear at the same time as his hand found his cock. Francis swallowed hard to smother a moan. Unlike both times before, these weren't private quarters, and any misconstrued noise might be enough to bring unwanted attention. Yet another reason to have this over and done with with all possible haste.

So Francis could have cursed when Philippe removed that hand—and his mouth, for that matter—long enough to free himself from his own breeches. But Francis could not fault him for it for long. The friction of his member, gliding like warm velvet against Francis's own, was heavenly in the blasphemy of its symmetry. Francis couldn't help himself.

He hooked his leg around Philippe's, as if that could somehow draw him closer than he already was, and he reached for the count, grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of his head, and seizing those lips for himself in a wide-open kiss before he really knew what he was doing. Just needing the warm, wet kneading of another mouth against his, and Philippe's was more than willing, more than capable of drowning Francis's moans in its depths.

It was no god that struck Francis down for being unfaithful. It was the creaking of the door, and a surprised feminine gasp a second later: "_Oh! _My God, I'm so sorry—"

Even if a part of his brain recognized the voice, the rest of Francis paid it no attention until that voice spoke his name. Which, of course, by then was too late.

"Mary!"

A curse on his tongue, he sat up too suddenly, and felt Philippe's chin connect with his forehead. By the sound of it, of the two of them, it hurt the count more.

But Francis had his own pressing concerns. Like tucking himself back into his breeches before Mary could see just how much he had been enjoying himself, and all but tripping over his feet to get to her or the door—whichever came first. He swore "This isn't what it looks like!"

"Really?" Mary said as he chose the door, leaning it shut behind her. Clearly, she wasn't going to buy a bit of it. And, following her gaze to his fly, whose ties were still undone, Francis wouldn't have believed himself much either. "What is it, then?"

"All right." He raked a hand uneasily through his tousled hair. "It's exactly what it looks like. But if you give me a chance to explain—"

"What is there to explain!" Despite Francis's warily eyeing the door, Mary did not take the hint to lower her voice. And, he supposed, he couldn't blame her for that. "I thought we agreed there would be no more secrets between us, Francis, and all this time you've been . . ." She did lower her voice then. "_Dallying_ with Count Nardine, of all people?" She gestured to the man in question, who was trying to recompose himself with as much nonchalance as possible while licking at a swelling lip. "Behind my back?"

"It hasn't been 'all this time,'" said Francis. "It only happened once before—and it was a moment of weakness on my part. I'm not proud of it."

He should have known better than to think a lie would make his situation any better, particularly one he hadn't thought out. "And when was that?" But it seemed Mary could already guess the answer. As far as she knew, they had only crossed paths with Philippe on one other occasion. "On our _honeymoon?_ Francis, how _could _you—"

"Now, that wasn't what I was going to say. I met him before you did. While I was in Paris—_before _we were married, when I thought that I had lost you for good, Mary!"

But Mary had already put the pieces together and could not be convinced otherwise. She had to laugh at the simplicity of it. That idea Francis had had for her to use her finger inside him was all too timely now that she looked back on it. And she should have known that he was holding something back when he tried to warn her about Philippe Nardine. She knew that guilty look of Francis's well enough by now.

"But it meant nothing to me—"

"As if that makes it any better," Mary said. "You profaned our marriage bed, Francis! You made a mockery of our vows to one another, and you made a fool of me, letting someone else—some other _man _touch you. Is that why you suggested we try something different? Were you trying to tell me I wasn't enough for you?"

"Not at all," Francis said, frantic for her to stop lest she somehow stumble on the truth. "You're everything to me, Mary. Honestly! But, you see, that's _why_—"

"Why you think I'll just roll over and forgive you for it? Because at least you didn't bring some other _woman_ into our bed? If that's what you believe, then you're sorely missing the point. Did we not just have this conversation about keeping secrets from one another, and all the while you've been hiding this one who_ know's _where—"

"It isn't his fault," Francis said, seeing Philippe was trying his best to blend into the décor.

Though after the words were out, he wasn't sure how they were supposed to make anything better. On the contrary, Francis might have had more luck if he'd said at the outset the count was trying to take advantage of him. But it was too late to try that tact now and Philippe didn't deserve it.

"You shouldn't have invited him to First Light in the first place," he said instead. "If you had talked it over with me beforehand, as we had agreed you would, before rushing to play match-maker and meddle in everyone's affairs without knowing the circumstances, we wouldn't be here right now because _this,_" he gestured between himself and Philippe and the room as a whole, "would not have happened!"

The silence that followed hung in the room like a sudden frost. Even Philippe, with his little experience in such matters, knew Francis's had been a fatal choice of words.

He got to his feet with a hasty "I should really give you two some privacy—"

"_I_ rather think you should stay," Mary said before he could take more than a few steps, and said it with a dead calm that made the count stop in his tracks. "After all, this concerns you, too."

It was that calm that worried Francis as well, for he could read nothing from it that would tell him what to say next. "Look, Mary," he tried, "I understand you're upset—"

"Oh, I'm not upset," Mary said. "I'm furious. But I don't see what good yelling about it any further is going to do. What's done is done."

That this was a betrayal of her trust and their promises to one another, Mary had no doubt. And that alone was something she could not see herself forgiving any time soon, as it was not something one could merely decide to let go of. It wormed its way under the skin, festering, spreading doubt, if one allowed herself to wallow in it. Even worse was Francis's attempt to blame _her_ for the opportunity to commit his indiscretions. As though she were supposed to somehow guess the count's persuasions from Francis's sarcastic comments and brow waggles alone.

Yet when he insisted being unfaithful with Philippe Nardine was somehow different than being with Lola or Olivia, or any other woman, Mary did have to admit one truth to herself: Catching her husband writhing against the count had not aroused the same level of jealousy in her as just being in the same room with one of Francis's past lovers, or even watching him share a kind word or two with them. That in no way made up for the graver sin of deception, but it had to be considered nonetheless. Perhaps it was as simple as lacking the same emotional attachment. Mary was fairly certain that it was not Philippe's heart, nor even his mind that drew Francis to him. Nor, to Mary's knowledge, had he ever shown particular interest in the body of any other man, though she realized there might still be many things she did not yet know about Francis where his interests were concerned.

And yet if Philippe had indeed put that idea in Francis's mind, that idea to try something a bit more adventurous, then Mary supposed she rather had the count to thank for that particularly interesting night of their honeymoon. Francis had certainly enjoyed the feel of Mary's touch inside him—

_Her _touch, she reminded herself. She had in her fingertip the power to drive Francis to a state of mindless satisfaction, and she was certain his fascination with the count was purely selfish. It had to be. She had to know that she had not lost Francis's interest yet. And with that, a plan began to form in her mind.

"But perhaps there is a way you can make this up to me."

Francis let out the breath he had been holding. "Of course," he said, not caring how subservient it made him seem before a witness. "You don't know how relieved I am to hear you—"

"I haven't yet said what all that entails." While Francis stared at her in dread anticipation of what she might say next, it was Philippe Mary fixed her gaze upon. "Since the matter at hand involves your inability to quit your fascination with Count Nardine, I propose he be our guest for one night, so you can get your fill and put him out of your mind once and for all."

"Absolutely not," Francis said, stepping toward her. "You're perfectly within your rights to want to get back at me for what I've done, but there I must draw the line, Mary. I won't stand to watch another man touch you!"

But Mary only laughed at that. And, by the cautious smile slowly returning to the count's lips, it seemed he already understood quite well what she was proposing.

"Well, Philippe won't be touching _me_," she told Francis sweetly, "so you have nothing to worry about in that regard. I won't disagree that he's an attractive man, but I have about as much interest in him as I believe he has in me. I think you'll be happy to note he'll be touching _you_, Francis, since you seem to enjoy that so much."

Francis could only stare in disbelief at the look of understanding that passed between the two of them. Could it be they had been in on this together all along? That in coming here tonight he had stumbled into a trap the two had already laid?

No. Impossible. If Mary had known about his previous tryst with the count, he would have met the full force of her fury about it before now. She certainly could not have faked that outrage so well. But how quickly the two of them put aside their differences to conspire against him—

Francis had to laugh, bitterly. "You cannot ask me—" he began, but Mary would have none of it.

"But I'm not asking you, Francis. You gave up your right to have a say in this decision the moment you took your fiddle out of your britches for someone else to play with. Now," she moved on, while Francis caught himself checking at her words that said instrument was safely tucked away, "if the count decides he'd rather not participate in your penance, then I guess I'll just have to find some other way of making you suffer. But I leave that matter up to him."

Francis followed her patient gaze back to Philippe, who looked a mite less eager to bolt from the room now that he had been able to mull the offer over. Say you won't accept, Francis urged him silently, _please _say you can't.

But as though he had received that message loud and clear, as though precisely with the intent of prolonging Francis's suffering, Philippe smiled his assured smile, and said, "When would you like me?"

"Why not make it exactly one week from tonight?" Mary said to him. "I will have a letter of summons sent to your quarters when you're wanted."

That decided, she excused herself, with a cool "Good evening" and one last glare in Francis's direction which guaranteed that, wherever he slept tonight, it wouldn't be in her bed.


	2. Reconciliation

Reconciliation

Clearly Francis was not the only one anxious about that evening. "You don't have to go through with this, you know," he said to his wife, who had been pacing their room in her nightdress and robe ever since she had sent off her letter. "Neither of us is going to fault you if you change your mind."

He had been hoping she would, and could not possibly be more transparent about it.

"On the contrary," Mary told him, "I'm quite looking forward to it. And I would think you would be as well, judging by what I saw when I walked in on you a week ago."

But even she could not deny that a part of her was nervous. She and Francis had never shared their marriage bed with a third party—no matter how common a practice it was among the nobility, if rumor could be believed. Before catching Francis in another man's arms a week ago, it had never come up for discussion. Both would have considered the idea that they would even have need of a third party, that they might not be enough for one another in any capacity, a symptom of a serious problem in their relationship.

Yet, Mary reminded herself, the problem was already here, and she was not the one who had gone looking for release elsewhere. Francis could not put the blame on her for starting this ball in motion, as it was clear to her now it had started rolling long before First Light.

"But doesn't the thought of someone else watching what should be a private, intimate moment between us bother you in the slightest?"

Mary bit her lip, confident that the way she was turned, Francis would not see it. He seemed to know exactly the part of this arrangement that bothered her the most. Though she could easily reason her misgivings away. "It can't be any worse than our wedding night."

"Precisely my point! You know how difficult it was for me to keep my interest going with all those eyes on us." Francis shivered at a memory he would sooner have forgotten. There was something about being watched by old men of the cloth whilst one's britches were off that inspired the exact opposite of confidence. Not to mention being watched by one's own brother. . . .

"It was humiliating. To say nothing of how uncomfortable it must have been for you."

Was she meant to thank him for that? For considering her needs in an afterthought? "Well, Philippe won't just be watching, so perhaps that will make you feel better."

Francis treated her to one of his long-suffering sighs. "You and he are on a first-name basis now?"

"I thought I may as well get used to it. It would be silly to call the man 'Count' as he's servicing my husband."

Francis squirmed at her choice of words, and then it was clear to Mary where the issue truly lay.

"I see. It isn't so much that you can't stand the thought of being watched. It's that you don't want _me_ watching the two of you. You don't want me to see that someone other than myself can drive you mad with pleasure."

By the parting of his lips, Mary guessed that was precisely the problem; only Francis could find no words to respond that did not also condemn himself.

"You think it will only make me jealous."

"You're awfully cavalier about all this," he said. "_Too_ cavalier. Yes, if you want the truth. I do worry that your expectations for this evening are not very realistic, and I know how you'll react once you realize that. I know _I'll _be the one paying for it."

"And did you enjoy your week of celibacy?" Mary shot back. "Because I can extend it another week—or month—if you're so intent on getting out of this. A bit difficult to conceive, though, is it not, when the only thing you're coming into is your own hand?"

"You see, that's exactly what I'm trying to prevent!" Francis shook his head at her, trying desperately to take what he believed to be the higher road.

But Mary was glad for the rapping that saved her from having to hear whatever excuse he had been on the edge of giving.

It was not the chamber door that sound had come from, but rather from the corner on the other side of the fireplace, muffled behind a tapestry. With one last glance to see if Mary would change her mind—he needn't have wasted his time, she thought—Francis went to answer it.

The Philippe who emerged with candle in hand was grinning with a boyish exuberance that seemed to have little to do with the purpose of his presence. "The passages in this place are amazing," he said, with almost a shiver. "All this sneaking about between the walls certainly warms the blood."

"I trust you didn't have too much trouble finding your way?" Mary asked him.

In answer, Philippe held her letter between two fingers. "All thanks to your map, Your Grace. I haven't found myself in a maze like that since trying to find this one hole-in-the-wall of a bookseller in the souk of Fez. Took me half a day—and I never was able to find it again after that, no matter how hard I tried or whom I paid off."

"You ought to hold on to it then. You'll need it to get back to your room when we're finished." Mary managed a warm smile, and Philippe took her advice to heart, placing the folded bit of paper and his extinguished candle in a secure place on the nearby mantel. "I'm sure there's much less risk of being robbed or molested here than in the souk, but those passages can still be dangerous if you lose your way."

Francis didn't like the way her words seemed heavy with a familiarity that he was not privy to. Nor was he comfortable with the way Philippe was staring at his wife, and she at him. As if they were conspiring against him in some language he could neither hear nor understand; and Francis had to wonder if the directions Mary had left the count in her missive concerned more than just navigating the palace's secret tunnels.

If he didn't know both of them so well, Francis might have been the one filled with envy. If he hadn't been quite so aware that he was the true object of both their interests this evening.

"And please, call me Mary, Philippe," she added. "Just for tonight. I want us all to be comfortable with each other, without worrying over titles or rank."

Philippe's smile widened into a lopsided grin at that. Even without title, there was no question who was master of the room; though the count was quite willing to play along with her pretenses of democracy, with a tip of his head rather than the formal bow his upbringing itched to execute. "Very well, Mary." However, her name still felt a bit forward on his lips. "Where would you like to start?"

Mary tented her fingers before her lips as she weighed what she had to work with: Philippe, calm and collected on the surface, but clearly champing at the bit after his wanderings through the palace's hidden passageways; Francis, seeming more like the quarry of the hunt, with his flared nostrils and flitting gaze, poised to run.

But how quickly, she wondered, wagering with herself, would that anxiety devolve to the same animal passion she had caught just a brief glimpse of in the library, if she left her husband to Philippe's devices?

"You can start by undressing him," she said to the count, though her eyes watched Francis for reaction. "But do take your time," she amended when Philippe moved to comply. "We have all evening for Francis to think about his choices."

Francis placed his hands on Philippe's hips as the count reached for the buttons of his collar. But though he did not push Philippe away or make any move to stop the progress of his fingers, it was not to pull him closer either. "Mary, please," he tried one last time to appeal to her mercy, meeting her eyes, "I really don't think this is such a good idea—"

"You're not supposed to feel good about it, Francis. That's why it's called penance," she told him evenly. Then to Philippe, a bit gentler: "You can kiss him, if you like. _He_ certainly seems to like it."

Maybe it would shut Francis up as well, stop anything more from coming from his mouth that might cause her to doubt her decision.

And as Philippe's lips descended on his cheek, forging a path along his jaw while his fingers tackled each button of Francis's doublet at an unhurried pace, Francis was most afraid of proving her right. How quickly his body betrayed him, responding to the pull of Philippe's teeth at his ear, and the steady trailing of his hands lower.

And how quickly Francis's shame arose alongside his desire. Mary's gaze rested on him heavier than any physical touch. And though he could read nothing of it when he turned his head to look at her, that did not stop him from imagining the worst. The disappointment she must certainly be feeling, the disgust, to see her own husband like this, so affected by another man's touch.

He had no way of knowing that it was exactly the opposite of disgust pooling in Mary's belly as she watched Philippe forcibly turn her husband's head back his way, and seize his mouth in a deep kiss. Francis gasped into it, opening the way for the other's tongue. He leaned into Philippe's hips only slightly before he caught himself, but his fingers tightened in the waist of the count's doublet nonetheless.

And when his eyes still sought Mary's across the distance between them, she was a bit surprised by the strength of her own reaction to the masculine symmetry of their kiss. Whatever resentment she might have felt for the count's intrusion into her married life was tempered by the baseness of her attraction to the tableau they comprised: the giddy fluttering in the pit of her stomach, the rush of heat between her legs.

And that was . . . odd, to say the least. Somewhat unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. She felt no great desire for Philippe himself, though he was by any measure an exceedingly handsome man. Tall, well-built in the shoulders and trim of waist, with dangerously keen eyes and mischievous lips. A fitting compliment to Francis's more lissome form and softer beauty, his guileless stares and coy smiles.

But to see that her husband could find something fascinating in that man's physique as well—just as Mary found the soft curves and peaks of a female nude fascinating on a visceral, covetous level—intrigued and thrilled her. She could find the count's body alluring, she realized, without wanting it; just as she could allow Francis to want it, confident in the knowledge that his heart belonged solely to her. She could lend out his desire at her discretion, knowing that she would see it safely returned to her as its true and rightful owner.

No sooner had Philippe gotten the last button of the doublet undone than he was tugging the tails of Francis's shirt from his breeches. His hands dove beneath the thin linen, hiding themselves from Mary's view as they traveled over the small of Francis's back, up his spine, no doubt lingering along that stretch of his sides just above his waist Mary found to be so sensitive.

At that deceptively intimate touch, Francis rolled his hips forward, pressing himself against Philippe, and felt the count's cock stir at the attention. His hands quickly found Francis's buttocks, kneading him over his clothes, and Francis let himself melt into the other's grasp. He held Philippe's face close to his, his thumbs brushing against the short copper hairs along his jaw as he mashed their lips together. Philippe's little grunt of approval, resonant on Francis's tongue, he took as a minor triumph.

Let Mary play her game, he decided, and see how she likes it. If she was so intent on proving some point of revenge to him, he would prove his own. He would not wait on bated breath for her apology, either: It was _she_ who had invited Philippe here—for the second time, now—so Francis might as well use him for his own delight.

But when Philippe's hungry kisses moved to the base of Francis's throat, as he tugged the doublet off of the prince's shoulders and arms, it was quite a different look Francis caught in his wife's gaze. As her eyes briefly met his over the count's shoulder, he saw the intensity he was expecting in their dark depths, but none of the anger, none of the envy or disgust.

Instead, her gaze roved raptly over every press of lips, every rocking of hips, so as not to miss a single symptom of Francis's pleasure. As she took in the scene, Mary lowered herself into a nearby chair, crossing her legs beneath the folds of her shift. The tightening caused her own growing arousal to throb, but she dared not reach for it. She did not wish to give Francis the satisfaction of seeing her touch herself. Not only might it have distracted him and Philippe, she did not want him to think he had achieved any sort of victory so early in the game.

Even if it hardly seemed to her eyes as though Francis were vanquished in any sort of way. Noting Mary's position, Philippe guided Francis back toward the divan that sat in front of her. Even seeing it approach out of the corner of his eye, Francis landed on his backside on it a little harder than he would have liked in his state. A small growl escaped him before he could catch it, but it made his point rather well. The new position pulled the crotch of his breeches tighter across his erection; and he grasped for Philippe as the man came to join him on hands and knees, insisting he oblige with a little relief.

Instead Philippe pushed him down against the upholstery, fingers tightening in Francis's hair as he smothered the prince's lips with his own. Francis managed to find purchase for a heel on the edge of the divan, and he arched beneath Philippe, eager for the friction, breathless when Philippe responded with an assertive roll of his hips, pinning Francis's back to the cushion. The hardness of Philippe's prick inside his breeches pressed Francis beneath his balls, and he flushed at the memory of Mary's fingers there, and the heel of her hand rubbing against him as she stroked that spot within him. . . .

At the thought, he tilted his head back to find her, only to see her eyes heavy with unadulterated lust as they looked back at him, her breasts rising with shallow breaths that he knew enough to recognize as a sign of her arousal.

Francis wasn't the only one who caught it. Philippe awaited her next command, blue eyes flashing, a pant on his lips.

It brought a lopsided smile to Mary's own. "Well, don't stop now," she bid him. "What would Francis want you to do next?"

"Well, he'd probably want me to . . ."

Philippe trailed off with a curious expression on his face, as though he were embarrassed to say it. Or perhaps, Mary thought, he probably thinks it would be too much for a queen's delicate ears. "Want you to what?" she encouraged.

"Fellate him, Your Grace." In his sheepishness, the title slipped out before he was quite able to catch it.

And Mary wondered what he was expecting her reaction to be to that word. Shock? Ignorance of what it meant?

Or the catch of her breath in her throat, the hot rush of blood through her limbs that he could not see? "Show me," she said, leaning over one of the chair's arms.

"Mary—" Francis began, but a word from her and a press of Philippe's mouth to the dip of his navel cut him off.

"I want to see him do it," she told Francis. She needed to see what it was that kept her husband going back to this man for more, to know what it was she had to do to keep him from straying in the future. If Francis himself wasn't going to give Mary any advice on how to pleasure him better, she reasoned, then at least Philippe Nardine could, by example. "I want to see _how _he does it. Maybe I'll learn something."

Nor was she the only one finding this an educating experience. Francis thought that he had never seen such a side of Mary before, equal parts despotic and depraved. Flushed with arousal just from watching him, and at the same time, her expression stony and imperious, giving away no clues as to what she intended Philippe to do to him next. And God, was there something wrong with Francis that that turned him on, to be so utterly divested of his power by Mary?

It was only Philippe's progress in divesting him of his breeches that succeeded in pulling Francis's gaze away from her. The count was far less hasty about it than he had been in the past, Francis noted, working them lower off his hips at what seemed to him a snail's pace, and he was certain the torture was less for his own benefit than for Mary's.

And still Philippe would not release Francis's cock from the pressure of its trappings. Not until his kisses could reach the root of the dauphin's erection. They trailed downward just a step behind the breeches' ties; and when at last he allowed Francis's cock its freedom, it was into his ready mouth. Francis arched up into that enveloping heat, and Mary felt her own breath catch in her throat at the sight of it.

At the sight of both of them: Philippe taking her husband in so hungrily, so effortlessly making Francis moan and twist on the cushion; and Francis, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he lowered his eyes to watch the count over the expanse of his own body. He never seemed quite so lost to reason when _she _worked him with her mouth, Mary thought, now feeling that little sting of envy that Francis had warned her would be waiting for her at the end of this.

But it wasn't all she felt. And the excitement of it, the illicitness of the act, of being a voyeur to it, of every obscene, wet release of the count's mouth from Francis's flesh, went a long way to make up for whatever jealousy or resentment might have lingered in her toward Philippe. Knowing that what the count did, he did now at her behest, at her pleasure. Knowing if she wanted him to stop, or do something again, more slowly, he would have no choice but to comply.

Not that she needed to say a word. As if noticing how Mary strained to see that point of contact between them more clearly, Philippe lifted Francis's hips off the cushion, sat back on his heels, and settled the backs of Francis's legs on his shoulders. Francis gasped at the radical change in position, how vulnerable it made him to Philippe's heavy kisses, and the questing of his tongue. He groaned with approval as it found that tender strip of flesh behind his sac again, the warm, wet teasing of that tongue such a deliciously alien sensation. It stirred an itch deep within him, an urge to release that he could sense near and yet still frustratingly out of reach.

It pulled his thoughts back to Mary as well, and he fought that urge back. It was one thing to come beneath Philippe's ministrations when they were alone, when the danger of being caught became a reason to reach that peak hard and fast, the sooner to pretend it had never happened.

Quite another matter when the one person he had wanted to hide this little guilty pleasure from in the first place was watching every bit of it intensely, barely three feet away. He craned his head to see her better, to plead with her to end this before he gave in and came like he so wanted to.

And he very nearly did when he saw her squirming in her seat, and sitting a bit lower in it than when they had started. Her eyes were dark with lust as they watched Philippe work, studying every flick of his tongue or press of his lips against her husband's flesh, watching for every shiver that ran through Francis, every quiver of his thighs at Philippe's ears.

She had crossed her legs tight, but her veil of nonchalance was slipping fast. Her hand was in her lap, Francis noticed. He could see that she was rubbing herself through the fabric of her nightdress in the play of shadow across the back of her hand. The thumb of her other hand swirled around the scrollwork in the chair's arm, and Francis had to wonder if she was entirely aware she was doing it in time with the laving of Philippe's tongue.

He spoke her name, and she started at the sound of his voice, as if just remembering that _she _was not alone either—that _she _also had an audience. Her hand stilled when she met his eyes; her hips, not so much; but seeing her own urgency mirrored there, and the vanity of it, the pain of wanting the one who was just out of reach . . .

He did not need to plead aloud for her to recognize his need in the depths of her own desire.

"You can stop for now, Philippe," Mary said, finding her throat suddenly dry. "I think Francis has suffered enough." And she feared that if he had to "suffer" any more under the count's skilled mouth, he might peak far too early for her purposes.

"Thank God," Francis breathed, trembling as Philippe let him down.

Despite his legs not wanting to support him very well, he managed to make it over the divan and to Mary's side quickly enough. No sooner was she on her feet herself than he took her face in both hands and pressed his mouth to hers. All the urgency Philippe had aroused in him she could feel channeled through that kiss, and in his breathless sigh against her lips when his lungs demanded air.

"Come to me, Francis," Mary murmured against them as she led him back toward the bed, his shirtsleeves like reins in her fists. Her robe, abandoned in the armchair. "You're mine, all mine—ah, I want you—"

His arm was around her waist all the while, pulling her tight against him. His arousal jutted against her pubis, and it erased what little sense of mastery she had been trying to maintain. He let go of her just long enough for her to pull the shirt over his head, and fumbled out of his breeches, almost deciding it really didn't matter if he was free of them completely. He wanted her now. He wanted his wife. And judging by the hot dampness against his palm when he snaked a hand beneath her gown to cup her, how she trembled at his touch, she wanted him just as urgently.

She crawled onto the bed, expecting Francis to be right behind her; but now that he was Mary's alone, he thought it only fair he take _his_ time. Holding her ankle in place, he pressed his mouth to the inside of her bent knee, his other hand sliding the hem of her shift steadily upwards. Mary shivered at the cool of the air on her bared flesh, but not for long. Francis's trail of kisses up her thigh was brief and to the point, as he had little patience for this masochistic game of hers of denying himself what he wanted.

And when he parted her folds with his tongue, laving that nub of engorged flesh that made her moan so shamelessly when they were alone, she could bite back the whimper that arose from within her all she wanted: It was clear to Francis what watching him with the count had done to her. It was clear what she wanted. The fingers he slid inside to tease her walls came away slick and musky with her desire.

Mary supposed she could have easily let him finish her off in that manner; it had been a long week, and he was certainly ardent enough and knew the terrain well. But it wasn't what she had in mind. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not tonight. Threading her fingers through his hair, she bid him rise, and pulled him hungrily down to her, tasting her own eagerness on his lips and tongue. She hooked her legs around his waist, flesh buzzing with anticipation at the hard press of him flush against her, and Francis stroked her thighs, delighting in their feminine softness, and their urgency around him.

He ran his hands up under the shift, trying to remove it; but when it reached the level of her breasts, Mary stopped him. Tugged the fabric back down to her navel. "Just for tonight," she murmured against his lips; though Francis supposed what she really meant was, Not in front of Philippe. And, leaning his forehead against hers, he had to curse this dance the two of them were locked in around him: granting him some bit of pleasure one moment, denying and depriving him the next. . . .

Although so far, he consoled himself, he had heard no rules governing how he could use his hands, only what he could or could not remove.

So he was delighted that the stroke of his fingertip over her sensitive nub elicited such an appreciative moan from Mary's lips when he reached down between their bodies. Her eyes closed, her hands falling back to knead the duvet beside her head in what Francis took to be the nearest sign of her surrender he had received all evening. He swirled his fingers around that little peak of flesh just to torment her further, rewarded with the slow bucking of her hips, a pulse of her muscles around him as he slid fully into her heat.

Francis moved to nuzzle her neck, his breath echoing in her ear with every roll of his hips; and while he was thus occupied, Mary caught sight of Philippe over his shoulder. She had to admire his physique, freed of his doublet and shirtsleeves, his thick, defined arms that she knew were used to enfolding other men. And she wondered how they enjoyed it, if there was something narcissistic in men of his persuasion that made his masculinity as alluring to them as it was to a woman such as herself.

Somehow, even after having an audience to her and Francis's consummation, Mary was finding it difficult to remain self-conscious under the count's heavy gaze. But then, Philippe was not merely some passive witness. And knowing it was only Francis he had eyes for, as he tugged at the buttons of his fly with matter-of-fact brusqueness, certainly helped ease Mary's mind. His eagerness to join them was quite apparent to her, even before he freed himself from his breeches.

"There are oils on the table," Mary told him with a tilt of her head, making no excuses for her stare. "Try the one in the Venetian bottle. . . ."

Philippe nodded in understanding.

Nor did Francis miss their exchange. He pushed himself up to look at her, breathing strained as his hips broke their rhythm. "My suspicions were right. You two _have _been plotting behind my back." And Mary had to smile at his choice of words.

"Mary tells me you put my advice to practice," Philippe said, far from a denial of conspiracy. "I also hear that you loved every second of it."

Hearing the count's words thick with anticipation, and watching him slick his member with the fragrant oil, knowing it was meant for Francis alone, sent such a rush of heat to Mary's nethers that she feared finishing too early. Nor was she the only one, as the memory of her finger inside him stirred in Francis's mind and in his loins.

"You had no right to discuss that," he tried halfheartedly to reprove them, though he was finding it difficult of a sudden to keep his voice even.

"We had every right," Mary told him, turning his head to face her. He seemed far too distracted with Philippe's whereabouts. And his cock's, for that matter, when the mattress dipped behind him. "We both had to know what you would be comfortable with."

"Don't you think if I were seriously opposed to any of this, I would have put an end to it straightaway? I _am _still the Dauphin, am I not?"

But the tickle of Philippe's breath over the small of his back inspired a shiver in Francis that dismantled whatever authoritative aura he had been trying to muster. The count trailed kisses up his spine, but it was the weight of his hand on his backside on which Francis was focused, and the press of an oiled fingertip at his entrance. He spread his knees wantonly, shamelessly, leaning into Mary's heat as that digit slid into him to the knuckle, making her moan and tighten around him.

It wasn't enough. He needed the electricity, needed to feel the pressure that left him too delirious to care whether this was all some game the two of them had concocted, and he just some shuttlecock to be passed between them. He would gladly be their shuttlecock for that particular touch. Surely he must have earned it by now.

Yet he was sure once again that Philippe knew just what he wanted, and was willfully withholding it. His touch remained just out of reach, gliding over that nub but paying it none of the attention that it so desperately deserved. Francis might have begged for if he didn't know just how completely at their mercy begging would make him sound.

The second finger was more uncomfortable than Francis was used to, however, Mary having had no reason to use more than one.

"Relax," Philippe scolded him. An order if ever Francis heard one. The hard length of the count's cock pressed eagerly against the back of his thigh, and Francis had no doubt where it would soon be. That knowledge sent his belly fluttering with an anxious excitement. Surely Philippe could not blame him for that. "This is only going to hurt if you resist," he said. But try though Francis might, he was finding it difficult to believe him.

Mary recognized that look on her husband's face, and knew how he got when he had his attentions yanked in two different directions at once. She reached for him, taking his head in both hands and seizing his lips for herself. "Listen to him, Francis," she whispered when they broke for breath. She needed him as fully in the moment as he was able in order to appreciate this—fully present with the both of them, herself and Philippe.

Francis gasped against her mouth when the count entered him, but Mary refused to let him go, kneading his lips till hers buzzed, seeking out his tongue with her own. She felt him start to flag inside her with the discomfort and raised her thighs to brace his sides, worked him with small oscillations of her hips. She took his wrist, and guided his hand up under her shift, moaning softly when he began to knead her breast beneath it, rolling the nipple to hardness beneath the pad of his thumb.

It was when he started to move his hips again that Mary could let go her doubts, and simply feel. Those first few thrusts were stilted, strained with Francis's awkwardness being the fulcrum between their two bodies, the strange and intoxicating new sensation of filling and being filled at the same time. But Philippe eased them into a measured rhythm before too long, his hands gripping Francis's sides encouraging him to fall in stride.

Mary could feel the backs of them beneath her calves with every roll of Francis's hips into her. She had assured Francis the count would not touch her tonight, but she hardly thought either of the men would care about such an insignificant bit of contact, if they even noticed.

And if they noticed her breath come a little harder, her pulse race a little faster, they would only think it was all to Francis's credit. Not that with Philippe setting the pace, every time he drove himself into Francis, it was almost as though she were being taken by two men at once, a sinfully exhilarating thought. If only for that reason she envied her husband, that he had the singular privilege of having them both.

And was near to rapture with the fullness of the sensation. His body more accustomed to the girth with every thrust, each time the head of Philippe's cock hit that one spot within Francis, it sent waves of warmth through his loins, until he felt resonant with pleasure, radiant with it. Each cant of Philippe's hips plunged him deeper into Mary's tight heat until he could only nod and swear incoherently when she asked him if it felt good. _Christ_, yes. "Good" failed to describe it.

Francis straightened his arms beneath him, just trying to catch his breath or see Mary better or he didn't even know why he had done it, just that when he did so, all three of their bodies slid more perfectly together, and if Francis was sorry for his hands' loss of Mary's flesh, it wasn't for very long.

She writhed beneath him, her bare stomach and thighs quivering, her breasts tenting the thin linen of her shift, which did very little to hide her figure from anyone's gaze. As though out of a sense of propriety, she reached between her legs, covering her pubis with her palm; but Francis felt the beating of her fingers as she stroked herself in the hollow between their bodies, and knew propriety was the least of her concerns now.

He had a prime view of her self-pleasuring when Philippe snaked an arm around his chest, his other hand twisting possessively in Francis's hair. His ragged breaths against Francis's shoulder kept time with every thrust. His fingertips teased the prince's nipple as if mirroring what Mary was doing to herself. But it was the weight of Philippe's prick inside him, the pressure of his glans, strumming Francis steadily toward completion, on which he was most focused as he leaned back into that embrace.

He had no idea what a vision he was himself—what an image the two of them together made, Francis arching back into Philippe like a bow pulled taut and ready to fire.

Like a rendering of the passion of St. Sebastian, Mary thought, or Jacob overwhelmed by the angel, understanding now why artists seemed to imbue those sacred images with a sort of morbid eroticism. Seeing Francis in such a vulnerable state—the ruler subdued, the archer pierced—made him beautiful to her in an entirely new way. And made her want him as she thought she had never wanted him before. Not to take away this suffering, if indeed a kind of suffering this passion could be called. Rather, to watch him lose himself in it, surrender to it, and emerge from it as if reborn.

He had been trying so earnestly until then to hold back any sound of appreciation but the depths of his sighs, and when Philippe abruptly changed the tilt and timing of his thrust, a long and shuddering cry finally made it past Francis's lips. Mary could have almost laughed in triumph; but what escaped her instead was a moan in echo; and Philippe too couldn't help a grunt he smothered against Francis's skin, and a smile.

"You're close, aren't you?" he said against Francis's ear. "I can feel you getting tight."

His teeth tugged at the rim, and all Francis could manage was a breathy "Yes" bracketed by groans.

And Mary felt the filthiness of his words go straight to the flesh beneath her fingertip, her cunt tightening merely at the count's suggestion. Francis was not the only one who ached for release, who felt it nearly within reach.

"Look at her," Philippe demanded. And whether or not it was his fingers buried in Francis's hair, Francis did as he was told, locking his eyes with Mary's even through the heavy fog of his pleasure. Even through every roll of Philippe's hips doing their best to send him toward mindless oblivion. "Look at your wife," the count slurred, with a brief flick of his gaze in Mary's direction. "She's beautiful, isn't she? Everything you could possibly want."

That statement seemed to beg confirmation, and Francis's was half a nod, half a swearing of agreement beneath his breath, as emphatic as he could possibly manage in his state. His fingertips were white against the backs of her thighs, he held on to her so jealously; but it was his eyes that truly grabbed her—reached down to her through her own bliss and into the intimate recesses of her soul, and would not let her go.

Even when Philippe commanded, his lips against the shell of Francis's ear: "Say her name."

The first whispered "Mary" was as much an act of compliance as one of genuine inspiration.

But with every repetition that spilled from Francis's lips, and with every thrust of Philippe's hips that sent him sliding into her enveloping warmth, each breath of Mary, Mary, oh God Mary, grew more and more desperate, while the heat building within him neared its peak. There was no one in his eyes but her, and this magnificent vision of her, flushed with her desire for him, open wide to him, and he dared not blink lest it escape him. No name on his lips but hers—a plea, an exhortation, a mantra of worship: Mary, Mary, _Mary. . . ._

His eyes were still holding hers the moment he climaxed, until the force of his release overwhelmed him and left him seeing nothing but blackness and stars. His seed surged hard within Mary, and she could guess by the harsh groan that escaped Philippe beneath her husband's own cries, by the sudden jitter in his rhythm, how Francis must have clamped down around him. She remembered that feeling around her own finger, the strength and possessiveness of it, and quickened the pace of that same fingertip over her own flesh, wanting to join Francis quickly.

She was not alone in that hope. Philippe slowed and deepened the rolling of his hips, not allowing Francis's pleasure to abate so soon. The count's hand on his shoulder pressed him down toward Mary again, as Philippe continued to plunge into him through his trembling, every stroke of his cock against that one spot sending another spasm through Francis's, another wave of unbelievably intense heat radiating from deep in his loins. He found himself pressed hard against Mary's pelvis, and that friction was just what she needed. She was sure she must have gasped Francis's name at least twice as she was tipped over into her own shuddering, pulsating climax.

Francis wasn't sure he had ever felt her clench around him so firmly before, with such deep, rhythmic swallows. Philippe's grip on his shoulder tightened, his thighs seizing beneath Francis's as he emptied himself inside the dauphin. But it was Mary who captured Francis's attention entirely, how unabashed her whimpers as she rode out her pleasure, how every part of her seemed helpless against the ferocity of her passion. The flutter of her lashes and the color in her cheeks—this vision of ecstasy so perfect beneath him he had to tell her he loved her, urgently, with whatever breath he had left within himself. What need did he have for air that could come before the pronouncement of that truth?

It was that that brought Mary back around to her senses, his gasp of "I love you, oh Mary, how I love you," that was so earnest and out-of-the-blue, she found herself grinning through her panting at the sheer innocence of it at such a debauched moment.

She pulled Francis down to her, and it was then that his limbs finally failed him. He collapsed onto one elbow. And in a rush of breathless laughter, Mary and Philippe managed to catch him before he pitched heavily over onto the mattress and took them all with him, Francis groaning low in his throat and trembling one last time as Philippe slid out of him.

They lay like that for some time, Mary and Philippe, their legs tangled amid Francis's, their hands resting upon him as he stretched sated and exhausted between them. The three just trying to slow their racing hearts, and humming to their bones with the dying vibrations of their pleasure. The intensity of her climax had left a feeling of warm fullness in Mary's womb, a pleasant leaden weight in her limbs, and she was loathe to move for it. She would have liked nothing more than to stay there next to Francis's warmth, and close her eyes in sleep. Which it seemed to her before very long Francis had already done.

She propped herself up to see for certain, and caught Philippe looking at her husband with the same curiosity. He caught her eye and smiled, and Mary couldn't help feeling a sympathetic tug at her own lips at this joke that they alone shared.

Until her gaze lingered, and he had to look away, awkwardly. The longer they made eye contact, the greater the expectation that one of them would eventually have to say something.

And what was there to say, Mary thought, sobering. What did one say to someone whom—now that she looked back on it—she had practically forced into Francis's arms, and into her bed? For that matter, what did one say to the man her husband had been unfaithful with in the first place? "All is forgiven, now get out"?

But thankfully Philippe seemed to know without being told that his invitation this evening was not meant to extend past this moment. Gingerly he slid off the bed, without any word from Mary, and began to search out his clothes, slipping into them with a certain modesty that seemed rather unnecessary after the fact. Though, if Mary were honest, she felt the same way toward him in the clarity of completion, and checked more than once that she had pulled her shift back down over herself.

Then again, she thought, what she had taken for modesty on the count's part might only be an attempt at respectful silence, a desire not to intrude any more than necessary. She was careful not to disturb Francis when she got out of bed herself, and hurried to catch up to Philippe before he could disappear.

The count shrugged on his doublet, not bothering to fasten it for the trek back to his room, and made sure to retrieve Mary's map from where he had left it on the mantel.

"You will destroy that when you've safely returned, I trust," Mary said of her letter, while Philippe lit his candle from another nearby.

He grinned, as though she had said something funny. Or perhaps he had taken that as some sort of apology, or a sign of gratitude—neither of which she would have been prepared or willing to give. "Of course. We wouldn't want any reminder of this left lying about. Who knows what hands it could end up in." And Mary supposed she should feel a queer sort of comfort to know that even he found some things best left unspoken, now that the moment of bliss was over, its effects fading. "Does this mean Francis is forgiven his indiscretions?"

Did he mean the indiscretions he, Philippe Nardine, had had equal share of the blame in, Mary was tempted to ask him.

But she kept that thought to herself, hugging her arms as if to hold it securely to her chest. She knew he didn't ask in order to rub in whatever hold he had had over Francis, and Mary would rather the bad blood between them, so newly arisen, be buried just as quickly. "Not entirely," she said, lifting her chin, "but I think we've reached a new level of understanding, he and I."

"Ahh," was all Philippe said, and thankfully did not ask her what that entailed.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you," she said before he could slip behind the tapestry, "that I would appreciate it if you left in the morning, and not return to court unless I, and only I, explicitly send for you."

It wasn't the sort of reaction she would have expected from what amounted to ersatz banishment, but Philippe fixed her one of his wry, falsely self-deprecating smiles at that, and for a moment Mary thought she might have understood how Francis could give in to it so readily. It was the sort of grin that begged one to join in its conspiracy, to the point one felt the worse shame would be to refuse the invitation.

"Believe me, Your Grace," Philippe said, "nothing would please me more. Please understand, as . . . _interesting_ as this has been, I'm beginning to find royals' ideas of excitement to be a bit too dangerous even for my tastes."

* * *

**A/n:**_ Thank you for reading my pervy fic! \:D/ Thus concludes my series of Francis/Philippe slash ficcage, as I've now completely run out of ideas. Though I'm sure if they ever bring this character back for another episode (be still, mein heart!) inspiration will strike again, because my love is predictable like that. I hope my something different was able to bring some reading pleasure._


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